The Flaxborough Crab

ought to close it. Bruce touched her sleeve.

“Miss Sutton, would you mind staying on here until the ambulance comes. It shouldn’t be many minutes. I must go round to the house now. Mrs Meadow will have to be told.”

Among the several matters exercising the busy mind of Miss Teatime was the reflection that her original purpose in visiting the surgery would not now be fulfilled. She watched the departure of the still tearful Mrs McCreavy in the custody of her younger companion, whose own anxiety, presumably, had been overlaid temporarily by the evening’s excitement. What could Mrs McCreavy tell of Dr Meadow’s dramatic end? She had volunteered not a single word and in the general distress no one had thought to ask her. The police, no doubt, would set that record straight in their own good time. Mr Brennan...had he gone yet? No, there he was by the door, his back towards her, putting the things back in his briefcase. A lost sale? Hardly. Those people were on a fairly easy pitch. Doctors did not like to think they were missing out on one of the latest fashions in miracle drugs. There had been a couple of those leaflets of his on the doctor’s desk. ELIXON. Tall, dark blue letters. But what, for goodness’ sake, was she to make of that other curious thing she had seen soon after entering Meadow’s room? She would have to think about that. Most puzzling.

“Goodnight, Miss Sutton.”

Brennan was leaving. He nodded at Miss Teatime, then looked back to the girl.

“I’m very sorry.”

The door closed behind him.

Miss Teatime was about to follow, when she caught the expression of distressed appeal in the girl’s eye. Of course—how thoughtless to leave her there alone. She went over to her and sat down. The girl looked at her gratefully.

After a while, the girl said: “I hope it wasn’t anything urgent you wanted to see the doctor about.”

“No, no,” Miss Teatime assured her. “It was nothing that cannot wait a little longer.”

“I’m sure Dr Bruce would help if you like to stay until he comes back.”

“No, he has problems enough for one evening, poor man. I should not dream of troubling him with so trivial a matter. It was simply that I wished to obtain a repeat prescription for some tablets.”

“He would do that for you, I’m sure. Would you like me to ask him?”

“That is extremely kind of you, my dear. Unfortunately”—Miss Teatime opened her handbag—“there is one small difficulty. You see, I do not know the name of the preparation—the formula, you know.”

The girl watched her unfold an envelope and coax out the little green octagon.

“Oh, I know what that is,” she said brightly, then, “What a coincidence, though—it’s one of Mr Brennan’s.”

“One of Mr Brennan’s? I do not quite...”

“No, I mean it’s a line done by his firm. It’s got a fearfully complicated name—I couldn’t begin to remember it—but it’s marketed as ‘Juniform’.”

“ ‘Juniform’. Ah. And you can tell that, can you, simply by looking at this tablet?”

“Oh, yes. It’s absolutely distinctive. The shape, the colour, those little letters stamped on it—see?—E.D.G.S. I’ve dispensed lots for Dr Meadow’s private patients.”

“His private patients?”

“Yes. Well, the Health Service ones would get theirs from chemists in town, wouldn’t they?”

“I suppose they would.” She began re-folding the envelope.

“You have been most helpful. Miss Sutton. Thank you.”

Suddenly, the girl frowned. “Yes, but...”

“But what, my dear?”

“I don’t know that I ought to be telling you this, but Dr Meadow has stopped issuing ‘Juniform’.”

“Really?”

Again the girl hesitated.

“Well... Well, as a matter of fact, he used to be very keen on it. I think he was one of the first doctors to try it out. He did a piece in the B.M.J. about it at one time...”

“The British Medical Journal?

“That’s right. About clinical trials. That sort of thing. Then just a few days ago, he stopped prescribing it. And today I’ve been typing another article for the B.M.J. I didn’t understand much of it, but it seems he’s noticed what they call side-effects. Some syndrome or other.”

“Good gracious. I do not wish to catch that, do I?”

The girl looked at her. “I think it would be better if you spoke to Dr Bruce. You’ll not let him know what I’ve been telling you, though, will you?”

Miss Teatime smiled and patted her arm. “Not a word.”

They heard the sound of an engine. Tyres crunched on the gravel outside.

Miss Sutton jumped up. “That must be the ambulance.”

They waited, watching the door.

It opened, but instead of blue-uniformed ambulance attendants they saw a tall, easy-mannered man with a